


Ennui

by marchingjaybird



Category: Dark Avengers (Comic), Marvel 616
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 13:23:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchingjaybird/pseuds/marchingjaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bullseye is bored, Daken is a bastard, and Mac... well, Mac is hungry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ennui

There is a soft place under the chin that he has always found fascinating. On women especially it seems so tender, so sensitive. The skin there is smooth, warm, and when he presses his fingers against it he can feel her pulse chattering away, sending the blood shooting through her veins. He pushes a little harder and she tips her head back, exhibiting that animal instinct to show submission.

_See, here’s my throat, we both know that you’re the boss._

He steps away, turns his back. Even through the mask he can hear the slow release of the breath she has been holding. In fact, it’s amazing what he can hear through the mask. A skirling noise, dry and strange, a rasp, the wet unsheathing of impossibly long teeth.

The arrow leaves his hand at exactly the right point in his pivot, his mind unconsciously calculating, ordering fingers and wrist, everything moving in perfect harmony. The woman freezes. He smiles. The shaft of the arrow protrudes from her neck, embedded perfectly in that vulnerable little spot. For half a moment, they lock eyes, and there is horror in her gaze, accusation and confusion, rage and profound sorrow, and most of all, fear. 

If he was a more introspective man, he might have catalogued her emotions as she died, holding them in his head, replaying them in his mind. He’d heard that some killers did that sort of thing, turning over past glories, cherishing them, _using_ them. There is warmth in his groin now, the first threads of arousal that promise nothing and will probably come to nothing. There is a thrill in killing, in knowing that he has purposefully ended a life. Maybe it’s a sex thing and he hasn’t figured out how to take it to the next level. Maybe it’s just a power trip.

All he knows is that he lives to see the light go out in their eyes.

Hers flicker and go blank and that’s the last time he sees her. Black muscle and white teeth and long, whipping red tongue descend and he turns away, nose wrinkling very slightly. He doesn’t begrudge Mac his appetites but he doesn’t like to watch them either. There’s something distinctly unpleasant about the way he takes people apart; the sounds alone are almost enough to turn a man’s stomach.

Thankfully, it never lasts long, and within six minutes Mac flows across the roof and hulks next to him like a Geiger portrait of a gargoyle.

“Feel better?” he asks.

“Still hungry,” comes the expected answer. “You?”

“Yeah,” he answers. “Me too.”

He turns away for a second, surveying the skyline of the city, wondering how long they’ve been gone. Norman is bound to know about these late night excursions and thus far he hasn’t put a stop to them, but there’s no sense in pushing their luck. He glances back, a smirk crossing his face. Where once crouched Venom now stands Spiderman, black-suited, lithe, New York City’s finest.

He spits on the roof.

“Time to go home,” he says.

“Tra la la la,” Mac replies, laughing.

*

As cliché as it is, he stands by the window.

The sun is going down and from up here in the tower he’s got a pretty good view of it all. Cars and people and buildings, weirdly sterile from behind the glass. He hates it, wants to be out in it, wants the shit and the grime and the stench and the plain _badness_ of it all. Humanity is a seething mess, disgusting and beautiful, and he’s missing out on it.

His mind turns briefly to women. There are plenty here in the tower, employees and soldiers who would be glad to hook their legs over his shoulders for a night. Whores, the lot of them, eager to fall into bed with any man who wields even a fraction of the power that they crave. Genetic or societal, it’s all the same to him; as long as he’s wearing purple and mincing around Norman’s ivory tower, he’s got all the pussy that he wants.

But he doesn’t want it. He thinks about it, turns the images over in his mind, adds and subtracts and still comes up lacking. The idea doesn’t thrill him, doesn’t reach down and grab him by the balls like it used to. He thinks of blonds, brunettes, and redheads; whores and virgins; black and white and Asian and everything in between. He pictures them his age, then older, then younger, then _much_ younger. He imagines them fucking him, fucking each other, fucking dogs, fucking Mac. That, at least, gets a smile out of him and provides an amusing sidetrack into the mechanics of sex with the cannibalistic host of an alien symbiote. 

But it doesn’t turn him on.

He wants to suspect Norman, concocts outrageous stories about the water being spiked with impotence drugs, and knows them to be bullshit. Two weeks ago, he wasn’t having this problem. Two weeks ago, he was practically drowning in the sea of pussy that was getting thrown his way and he knows for a fact that at least two of his teammates are still in full performance mode. So maybe it’s nothing. Maybe he’s just not into it right now. Maybe it’s just all too fucking boring no matter how you dress it up and smack its ass.

He rests his forehead against the glass and stares down on the people below him and doesn’t bother to look up when he hears the measured tread of expensive shoes behind him.

“Come to give me a speech, Norman?” he asks. “Cause I’m getting really fucking sick of speeches.”

“I suppose we can just enjoy each other’s company, then.” It isn’t Norman’s voice that answers and he grinds his teeth audibly. That smooth voice with just the hint of an accent... so fucking infuriating. A wash of scent precedes him, sharp and rich and not at all unpleasant, and then Daken is standing next to him at the window, smiling benevolently out at the sunset.

“Or I could go fuck your mother,” he mutters, unaware of the words until they come out but pleased by them nonetheless. His gaze darts to the side and with no small amount of pleasure, he takes in the slight widening of Daken’s eyes, the subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth. There is no answer and so he continues, perhaps unwisely, but this is going a very long way towards breaking up the monotony.

“This,” he says, twisting around and resting his shoulders against the reinforced glass, “is the part where you tell me that your mother is dead and then I tell you that that’s never stopped me before.” He arches an eyebrow, tenses for a blow that never comes.

“I’m sure,” Daken answers, turning to face him. He looks slim in his pressed pants and artfully rumpled button-up but in every movement there is the threat of violence, of speed and power and callous disregard. His lips curl back and Daken’s curve in a smirk. “But you strike me as a man who prefers his corpses fresh.” Dark, almond-shaped eyes glitter in the gathering dusk. “Personally, I never had much use for them once they were gone. The dead can’t scream for you, after all.”

He snorts, digs his fingers into his stomach. Everything about Daken rubs him wrong; he can hardly stand to be in the same building as Norman’s new Wolverine. The fact that those languid eyes are focused fully and unblinkingly on his face is merely another nail on the chalkboard. “Screaming’s not so important,” he answers, thinking of the one time Mac got hold of a live one on a late night foray. He never wants to hear a woman scream again.

“Then what is?” Daken moves closer, smooth and graceful. His tie is askew. The suspenders holding up his pants are drifting gradually down the slope of his shoulders. There is something debauched about him, something swollen-lipped, lazy-eyed sly about the way he slinks closer, and the _smell_ … it’s not the smell of sex, not the way you would recognize, but there is something undeniably carnal about it, thick musk and intent.

“Tell me,” Daken murmurs. His voice is almost a purr, low and rough, and his arms slip up casually to brace against the glass. _Trapped._ They stare at each other and Daken’s expression twists into one of casual sadistic glee. “Or should I guess? I’ve been told I’m good at it, and I can do this all night.”

He realizes that he’s getting hard. The proximity, the warmth, the thick scent, the naked lust, the veiled aggression, one or all have done what no woman in the city or his imagination could do. He hisses through his teeth, hooks his fingers in Daken’s belt loops. Behind him, the sun flares one last time and then dies behind the horizon for another day. Daken presses closer, deliciously lean, massively strong. “I feel that,” he murmurs, shifting his hips, angling for more pressure, more contact. “You’re bigger than I thought.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” He bares his teeth and Daken catches him by the chin, shakes him in admonishment. His fingers are like steel traps.

“It means exactly what it appears to mean.” Daken’s voice is harsh suddenly, as though he’s forgotten all about the smooth exterior. As quickly as it happens, though, it is gone and a lilting, teasing note infects his speech. “If it upsets you, I can go…”

“ _No_.” The word escapes his mouth like a projectile, sudden and needy, and he’s ashamed of himself, and the shame only makes him harder. His hands shift, grip, pull Daken closer. His chin tips back. Animal reactions, submissive gestures. He is breathing hard now, aching and trembling. Daken laughs and nudges his head to the side. Wicked teeth find the spot under his chin and worry it gently.

Daken’s hands rest against his hips for a moment, then his perspective shifts suddenly. It takes him a moment to work out that he’s been flipped around, pressed belly-first against the glass with so little effort that he might as well have weighed nothing. Lips caress the back of his neck, thin and fever hot, as clever fingers work his fly open and slip inside. In contrast to the rest of him, Daken’s fingers are cool, but they tease just as cruelly, curving and stroking, teasing up and down and leaving aching trails of need in their wake.

“Look at you,” he whispers. “You poor pathetic bastard.” There is a tremble in Daken’s voice now, as if he’s skating on the edge of losing control, and his fingers shake as they rip at clothing, freeing buttons, shoving aside fabric, searching frantically for bare skin. Teeth sink hard into his neck and Daken growls like an animal; his body feels like a live wire, thrumming and twitching, tongue darting out to lick patches of skin: neck, shoulder, the curve of an ear, the line of his jaw.

“You smell good,” Daken breathes, and it seems a ludicrous assertion when clearly it is _Daken’s_ scent that is filling the room, heady and thick and animal. He laughs against the glass, twists back into eager hands. Behind him, Daken spits onto his fingers and shoves, and the world narrows to a thin tunnel of absolute agony.

“Hurts,” he gasps. It isn’t a complaint. Fingers crook and rub inside him and a thread of pleasure insinuates its way into the pain. He moans openly, fucking his hips back against cool fingers, and sweat or tears or both drip down his face and into his mouth. Daken laughs; it is a surprisingly filthy sound, low and vile and intrusive. He presses another finger in, twists them with casual cruelty, and then they’re gone.

He hears Daken spit again, braces against the window. The head of Daken’s prick presses against him without warning and he can’t stop a gasp, high and needy. “That’s right.” Daken rubs a palm in soft circles against his hip as he begins to push in, inch by agonizing inch. “That’s a good boy…”

He’s never felt anything like it, pain and shame and a steady, inexorable pressure of being deliberately filled. He holds his breath, curls his fingers into fists, stands as steady as he can on legs that tremble like a baby’s. It takes an eternity and he wants to scream for more, wants to beg for it all at once, but he can’t bring himself to do it, can hardly believe that he’s even allowing it, and then he is past the point of discomfort. Waves of crippling pleasure race up his spine and he whines in his throat, twists his head to lick and suck at Daken’s eager mouth. They’re like dogs, the both of them, snapping and growling as Daken pushes the rest of the way in and bites down on the back of his neck, warning him to be still.

They freeze like that and the tension trembles in the air.

Then Daken begins to move and everything breaks down around them. Powerful hips slam forward, sharp thrusts that penetrate deep and crush him against the glass. Daken snarls and snaps and if the words that he is speaking mean anything, they are impossible to decipher. Their fingers leave smudged trails along the window as both scrabble for purchase, twisting desperately, struggling for control. He slams his hands flat, pushes back, and Daken reaches up as though he means to cover them with his own.

The claws in Daken’s wrists shoot out, piercing the soft flesh between thumb and forefinger and sinking halfway into the reinforced glass. He stares for a moment in disbelief, tracks the blood running down his wrists, the sudden fire of pain in his hands, and then he screams. It’s a guttural sound, astonishment and agony in equal measure, and behind him Daken laughs, then moans.

“Good boy,” he coos, hips moving faster, prick sliding out further and slamming in harder. “My boy.” His voice has none of its usual smoothness; there is a shivering madness in his tone that is both hideous and compelling. Each thrust of his hips jars the claws and the mingling of pleasure and pain and adrenaline and endorphins is intoxicating, dizzying.

Cool glass meets his cheek and he whimpers softly. All he sees is red. All he smells is blood. His tongue flicks out and captures it, drawing it into his mouth and filling his senses with the copper tang. Everything is building to a fever pitch inside him, white-hot and frantic, and he grinds against the infuriatingly smooth glass in an effort to stimulate himself. Daken laughs and it comes out sounding like a snarl.

The claws withdraw and for a moment, he stands stupidly, hands still pressed against the glass as he processes the fact that he is free. Then, unerringly, his fingers find his own prick and he cries out harshly, stroking in time with Daken’s thrusts. The act is lent that much more pleasure when he looks down and sees the bright smears of blood across his skin. Pleasure curls tight and scorching at the base of his spine and he holds his breath, squeezes his eyes shut.

When he comes, it’s like blacking out, ecstasy slamming through him with physical force. His muscles contract painfully, his knees give way, his teeth chatter. He can’t find the voice to scream or the air to breathe; it’s a never-ending cascade of pleasure so intense that it hurts, so perfectly realized that all he can do is try helplessly not to sink under and lose himself completely. And just when he’s sure that it will go on forever, it peaks and begins to fall off and he lets his legs give way. Daken falls with him, dazed and shaking almost as badly.

They gather themselves in silence, pulling their clothes back into some semblance of order, avoiding each other’s eyes. Daken finishes first and stands for a moment, hands tucked into his pockets. He looks only slightly out of sorts, just a light flush in his high cheekbones to give him away.

“You might want to clean that window,” he offers, then turns and strides out of the room. The window in question is an unmitigated disaster, streaked with blood and sweat and semen. He stares at it for a second, then curses inventively and walks somewhat more stiffly out of the room.

*

Mac waits a good five minutes, just to see if either of them will come back, then descends from his perch in a high, dark corner and regards the mess on the window with single-minded intensity.

The fucking was entertaining while it lasted – especially when the screaming started – but he’s been smelling blood for fifteen minutes now and the weird pressure that he’s come to know as hunger is nagging at the back of his mind. He picks out the redness and extends his tongue in a strangely delicate gesture. Just a taste…

But it’s never just a taste and the flavor is intense and soon the window is clean of all traces of his good old buddy, his good old pal, who has been feeding him hookers and call girls for weeks now and who has, clearly, been hiding the tastiest morsels inside his own body.

Mac twists around and the symbiote flows with him, tendrils and tentacles that reach eagerly for the doorway. “Tick tock,” he mutters as he crawls down the hallway’s ceiling. “The crocodile’s had a taste now, Captain…”


End file.
